


to the deepest pools

by sunabolitionist



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein: A New Musical - Baron/Jackson
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Childhood Memories, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Final moments, Flash Fic, M/M, everyone is bi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunabolitionist/pseuds/sunabolitionist
Summary: A memory grows over their last moments like a sheet of snow. First Justine, then Elizabeth, then Alphonse, then Victor, and finally, the one hated by them all. They hang together by the red string of fate, by their time connected in the deepest pools.
Relationships: Elizabeth Lavenza/Justine Moritz, Henry Clerval/Victor Frankenstein, Victor Frankenstein/Elizabeth Lavenza
Kudos: 9





	to the deepest pools

**Author's Note:**

> its sad. i ahd fun writing it tho

They were taught how to fish young while holding a small set of fishing rods, hooks, bait in hand as they stood at the mouth of a gaping river swept clean by time and made blue as the sky.

Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein insisted that they would catch  _ not the descending trout, not the rusty trout, but the remaining trout, the ones who spent winter in the deepest pools.  _

William ran first, throwing his hook into the water. 

“Make sure it goes deep,” she reminded him. 

And all the while, Elizabeth wonders if it is right that they be hunted now after surviving so long. She knows how the water runs thin over fingers and ceases being blue. There are predatory birds with eyes sharp enough to catch a fish swimming mid-stroke. They’ve survived so long— surely they deserve to survive longer. 

She looked up at Alphonse while she neared tears, attempting to blink them away. He placed a hand on her shoulder and patted her gently. 

He said nothing, but he knew. 

* * *

Justine was as much a family member as she could be. The boundaries of service never instigated any discomfort nor drew up any pertinent divides. She was the only person Elizabeth felt she could trust— and the only one who was tied into her. 

For all the times their lips nearly met, there was equal parts guilt on both of their parts. But soon enough they became less fearful. Justine kissed Elizabeth while the two of them were alone on the water. 

“When we were young, my mother told the boys about the remaining trout.” 

“Remaining trout?” 

“Yes, the ones that live in deep deep pools until winter is over.” Elizabeth paused, “I think she wanted them to fish for those trout. I thought that was cruel. My father held me back from shouting out in despair.” 

“You are very empathetic.” 

Elizabeth took Justine’s hand and caressed it in hers, measuring the length of her fingers, the space between. Justine laughed softly. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Showing you what it feels like to be cared for.” 

“But I’d like to survive.” 

She let go. “Our days are bound to the deepest pools, then.” She mused. 

Justine kissed Elizabeth on the cheek with all restraint. “To the deepest pools.” 

* * *

Henry’s kindness was the only constant in Victor’s life; “you can worry,” he insists “that I will leave with the wind— but there is no wind to take me. We’ve made our moments in shut rooms.” 

Victor spent many weeks attempting to remember the good days of his childhood. It disappears like little drunken birds, falling pitifully onto the ground until the wings are too bruised to move again.

Henry interrupted Victor’s hollow musings. 

“I wonder whether you recall the pond outside of our childhood home.” 

Victor nodded slightly, not registering Henry’s words, then moved his head away from his labors, looking quietly. He didn’t take a moment to consider him, though he knew he was lovely and that he had always held his high adorations. 

“I do not,” he looked pensive, the part of him that cared for the past faltered. All of the things he knew he cared for felt empty. 

“The remaining trout?” 

“No,” He shook his head. 

“Well it doesn’t matter.” Henry sat beside Victor and laid his head on his shoulder, interrupting him. “The past is the past. And the future is…” he paused, mulling over his final word. “An intimate secret.” 

* * *

Alphonse grew tired. All the words fell through. 

He spoke with Elizabeth in the kitchen and off to the side, Justine gathered plates and ingredients for a meal. Elizabeth was set to help her, their hands conjoining to provide, and yet neither of them believed this was their lot. There were lives to be lived in the mountains, quiet lives with the two of them alone. 

“Elizabeth,” his voice cracked like an unoiled door. “I hope you know you are the hope for this family.” His eyes meandered. 

_ How have I seen you so many times, father, and yet never seen you at all?  _

“I understand.” 

“Victor was never one to enjoy responsibility, or the chance of full inimitable futures… He likes being able to focus on what he wants. He likes being able to to muse and work on his things. He doesn’t understand what it means to be a man, Elizabeth.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You will be who you must be, though.” 

“I understand.” 

Justine looked on, her eyes sunk heavily into the floor and seemed to grow there, burst into camellias. She felt quiet mourning; a shadow of herself appearing and disappearing. Say Elizabeth married. Say Elizabeth is the foremost Frankenstein after her sure-to-be husband, Victor. She would not love her then. But of course: many lies dispel at love that should not exist— and life can be found in nooses and strangle wounds. 

Alphonse stood jagged, desperately grappling and walks off. 

Once Alphonse left, Justine placed a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Almost instinctively, they both looked at each other. Elizabeth whispered “I love you” as the door closed. Justine replied “I love you too,” as it opened and a light came. 

* * *

The world, nay, Victor, took William. The day was colder than any known winter and every sorrowful bird cried out. They blamed Justine. 

Whichever way her doubts went, they fell and fell like sullen, underdeveloped snow, too hard to foment the blankets they saw as children. Elizabeth doubted and went with her head heavy— it nearly slipped from her shoulders on a neck too weak to hold it. Terrible fates mirrored our most beautiful hopes, and now there is nothing left to be had. 

_ Breathe,  _ Elizabeth reminded herself. 

It was a dirty and unremarkable cell— Elizabeth, without fear of the presumed murderer, entered with a light in hand. She came alone, shortly after she and Victor had gone. She thought of home; she thought of the pond. She thought of drowning herself. 

_ But the family…  _

But of course, the family. 

She sat on the dirt ground beside her. Elizabeth looked Justine in the eyes— pools where those who survive the winter go to live. But— she wouldn’t… She would die because it was what she wanted. Penance. Foolish penance. 

“I’m sorry this is happening.” 

“It is God’s will and punishment.” 

“For what? What have you done? You did not commit the murder! Please Justine— what is he—” 

Justine pressed her hand on her cheek. 

“You know.” 

Elizabeth began to cry and she stood, taking her lamp. 

“I love you.” Justine sobbed. The door shut, and the light left. Justine was hanged later that day. 

* * *

He never got the chance to hold Henry in his arms as he died. There was no joy left to be felt. The prison cell ached— heaven moved through the world and it was impossible to feel; as always, illusive, never wishing to help anyone. He looked for the light. 

Memory teased:  _ do you recall the pond? The remaining trout?  _

He decided, if he could not survive this, why should I? My creature has done these sins, but in the end, I am responsible for him. I have killed my love. 

His hands were abominable— his hopes abominable— his joy, his perverse joy at his closeness to rejoining Henry— abominable, abominable, abominable. 

Night comes. The magistrate leaves. The door shuts and the light leaves. Victor remains. 

* * *

The marriage suite smells of lavender. The marriage suite lilted with now absent whispers from friends, family— bouncing off tulle and color— as if to test Elizabeth’s wants. She didn’t want any of this. She didn’t want it at all. He can still see you. 

Victor stepped away for a moment. In his place, the creature arrived. Knowledge bloomed in his skull (the same skull cursed by throbbing headaches, cursed by the shame of his creation). 

He will remain for as long as Victor does— there is no reason for them to remain in this tooth and nail battle— God! Take it all! Take his family! Make him wish to die like he has done to you! 

And yet, he does not want to hurt her. 

His hands covered her throat. He choked and choked without thinking. Struggling, her body wilted in his grasp until her face turned white as her dress. He let her go and tears streamed down his face. 

He did not wish to remain. He never wished to be born. 

* * *

Alphonse sobbed for days. Even death dresses itself like a man and will discuss its goals with you. He talked and talked, his hands on the table, smiling dully as he looked at nothing. 

_ Victor could dissect the figure of approaching death from his target. Death was his height, death made promises. Death told him about home, about surviving, about the winter in the deepest pools, about mother, about father, about Elizabeth.  _

“Take my hand, Alphonse.” 

Alphonse smiled, he went. 

* * *

When they meet, Victor couldn’t feel anything. He admitted fault. He wished to remain but Victor was a descending trout as his mother would say. 

_ Ah… mother.  _

There are fates left to be held onto and yet, there is no Victor Frankenstein holding on. 

The creature carried his body. He remained. He looked over the tundra as the frozen pools begged him to join, those pools where nothing would survive. There is no shame in going quietly, in letting the fire sweep you up. He built the pyre. 

The winter cold had been circumvented by the fire forever—  _ and his spirit may oppose itself… but it makes death a victory.  _

Victor had died, but his family rose in the smoke. 

He let the flame kiss him, he could not remain and nor could his creator. The ice beneath the pyre melted. Together, their bodies sunk; straight into the deepest pools. 


End file.
